


Vampily Every After

by Meltha



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M, Slash, Wedding, season 5 fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-07
Updated: 2012-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-29 03:38:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/315395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meltha/pseuds/Meltha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are cordially invited to the wedding of William T. Bloody and Angel(us). You knew it had to happen eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Stakebait](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stakebait/gifts).



> Disclaimer: All characters are owned by Mutant Enemy (Joss Whedon), a wonderfully creative company whose characters I have borrowed for a completely profit-free flight of fancy. Kindly do not sue me, please, as I am terrified of you. Thank you.
> 
> Author's Note: Written incredibly late for the Slash Wedding Ficathon for stakebait.

I never, not in a thousand years, expected this to be happening. Any of it. If you’d asked me that last day in Sunnydale, “Spike, old pal, where do you see yourself two years from now?” I’d have given you any number of answers: dead, shagging the Slayer, following the Slayer around and begging for scraps, driving Angel insane, drunk—any of ‘em would have been something I could see.

If you’d said, “Nope, you’re going to be getting married to your dear old grand-sire,” I’d have laughed in your face, punched your face, then laughed some more as I went to Willi’s to brave whole new levels of the word “drunk” to get the image out of my head.

But things happened I didn’t expect. I wound up working alongside Angel, and damn me if it wasn’t actually fun to have someone to spar with again. Then there was that Circle of the Black Thorn deal, and I was pretty sure I was going with option one on that Where I’ll Be in Three Years list. Having hell show up in front of you, track you down, and press you against a wall is bad enough once in your life, but if you’ve a brain in your head, you don’t expect to come out of it twice and still be kicking.

I hadn’t planned on the Powers stepping in, though. I still don’t understand who this Whistler bloke is who showed up, but things sort of froze-like, and the next think I knew, he was explaining that Angel had passed the last test, whatever that meant. He still didn’t get his Shanshu. Signed it away, poor sod. But they made it so his soul is fixed in good and tight now, so no more bleeding Angelus to show up and bring merry hell down on us all, thanks be to whoever.

Then the demons just disappear, went back wherever they came from, I guess. Gunn’s standing there with a completely repaired gut, Illyria’s making a face that’s close to a pout over not being able to killmaimdestroy everything in sight, and Angel’s looking at me like I’d turned plaid. Wondered for a second if I had. I’ve had odder things happen to me.

“What?” I asked.

Next thing I knew, I was smack against the brick wall of that alley, being kissed damn near senseless by an extremely overly exuberant Angel. Gunn seemed slightly perturbed, as I recall, but more than that, I distinctly remember not bloody well caring about anything other than the man who was apparently trying to Hoover my tonsils out and finding out whether any of the rooms in the Hyperion had a decent mattress. Nothing like post-battle, post-Apocalypse aversion, post-several months of bickering foreplay to whet your appetite for a good, old-fashioned snog up against a wall in the rain. That was heaven, right there, and to hell with the rest of the world.

So, nearly a year has passed since that unexpected interlude, and unbelievably, here I am, wakin’ up to my wedding day… an actual, honest to goodness wedding. Angel’s a right little romantic at heart, wanted the flowers and the cake and the music, which is all well and good, but I’ve already told him if I hear one note of Manilow we are getting a divorce faster than he can say “Mandy.” I’ve groused and whinged and just plaid old bitched at him about every last froofy detail he’s agonized over.

I’ve loved every minute of it, and he knows it.

And now my eyes are drifting open and I’m looking around my very, very empty room. For some unbelievably odd reason, Angel wanted us to spend the night before the wedding in separate rooms. Daft. I considered using the phone in here to give him a jingle and get him so worked up he’d rip the door off the hinges getting at me, but there’s no phone in here. Cheapskate. So I wound up spending my last bachelor night all by my lonesome because he wants to “increase the anticipation.”

My anticipation has never needed any increasing, thank you very much. It’s a good-sized anticipation if I do say so myself, and I’ve never had any complaints.

Last night alone, though. Never have to wake up to an empty bed again. Just Angel’s extremely cold feet. I know we don’t have any natural body heat, but his toes could be used to chill drinks. However, I do believe I’ve found the cure for that: my little wedding present to the big lunk.

Lie here just a second more, staring up at the ceiling, and yeah, I admit it, I’m grinning like a flaming idiot. It’s not every day in the week you get married to someone you’ve loved, hated, loved, hated, and loved again for over a century. Sweet, sweet day.

At last I move my arse out of bed, landing with a bounce on the floor. Yeah, I’m a 150-year-old kid. What of it? I swat the alarm clock that’s been blaring annoying Muzak at me until it shuts up. Wedding takes place just after sundown, so I’ve got all of an hour or so to get ready yet. I grab a quick shower in the vacant bathroom. Only things in here are my toothbrush, comb, shampoo and gel. That was the extent of my overnight bag. Didn’t even like moving those out for the night of the shared bath we’ve got. Everything looks so lonely sitting on the shelf by itself.

I must be spending too much time with Angel. I’m brooding over the loneliness of my toothbrush. Next thing my hair will go straight up.

As I’m lathering, I spend a good few minutes thinking of Sweetums and what he must be doing about now. Most likely chewing his nails to the cuticles and snapping at random people for completely inane reasons one minute and apologizing all over himself the next.

God, I love that man.

Out of the shower and toweled off like a good boy, I go back in the bedroom and start dressing. My tux is hanging in the closet. Angel sprung for actually buying these. Nice, really, to have something to wear that’s both black and suitable for evening wear in places other than the local punk clubs. Also, as an added bonus, if one or both of us happens to rip off a few buttons later, well, no deposit lost, now is there?

Socks on, check. Pants on, check. Shirt buttoned, check. Shirt tucked in, check. Coat on, check. Ring in pocket, check. Shoes on, check. Tie… tie… where’s the damned tie?

“Oh, thanks, Dru,” I say as she hands me my tie from where she’s standing in the back of the closet.

Tie on, che… what the fuck?

“Dru?” I ask, staring at her. “Why are you in my closet?”

“Silly,” she says and tweaks my nose. “There was no room for me in the nightstand.”

Well, I’m blinking. That’s about the extent of what my brain can come up with at the moment. Can’t think of a single intellegent reply to this whole situation: my ex-girlfriend appears out of nowhere on my wedding day. As bad as that might be for most blokes, the whole problem with her possibly deciding to eat half the reception adds a new level of difficulty here.

“I’d like to get out now,” Drusilla says demurely.

“Oh, uh, sure, pet,” I say, motioning her into the room.

“You know, they say closets are for clothes, not people,” she says as she sits down on the only chair in the room, “but that one is quite comfortable if you don’t have to breath at all.”

“Just how long have you been in there?” I ask, still reeling a bit. Well, really now, wouldn’t you be a bit out of sorts?

“All day,” Dru says off-handedly, smoothing her skirts. She’s wearing lilac silk today, a rather pretty little party dress. “You still snore, by the way.”

“I do not!” I say, offended.

“Just as you say,” she says in a placating tone, but I can tell she doesn’t mean it. Damn. Nice of Angel not to gripe about that, though. Have to make it up to him later.

“Yes, well, it’s good of you to drop by and all, but I’m a bit busy today,” I say quickly, hoping I can defuse the situation.

“You and my Angel are getting married,” she says, nodding her head seriously. “I know.”

I was afraid of that.

“Didn’t you know where to send my invitation?” she asks, polite as you please.

“Your… wha?”

Alright, not particularly articulate, but to the point.

“My invitation! I had to wait for the raindrops to whisper to me that you and Daddy were going to be wed, and I was all the way in Burma at the time,” she says crossly. “I had to take a steamer to America for weeks to get here in time, and the rats were most unsatisfactory. They tasted of mothballs.”

“Well, we weren’t really sure how you’d be taking it,” I say, stammering a bit.

“William,” she says, temper evaporating, “do you know that I love you?”

Oh no. Not this. She’s not going to pull the come-back-to-me-routine. “Yes, princess, I know, but Angel and I are…”

“Shush!” she says, putting a finger over my mouth. “And you know I love Angel, too.”

Let’s see… a century of “Angelus is my darling,” “Angelus is the naughtiest, wickedest, sweetest morsel in all the world,” “Angelus is perfection rolled in chocolate drops,” all of these usually when we were shagging? I think I get the point.

“Yes, I know,” I say.

“Then why wouldn’t I want both of you to be happy?” she asks, turning innocent eyes to me.

Well. That’s unexpected.

“I love our family, pretty Spike,” she says, and she’s standing now, putting a hand on my cheek. “I’ve always loved you both, and I’m very, very happy you’ve finally realized that you love each other as well. It took long enough.”

“Hey!” I say at her last little grumbled sentence.

“Now, now,” she says soothingly. “I’d not be anywhere else in the world than here when the two boys I love most are about to be wed… well, so long as I’m wanted.”

I can’t help it. She’s the sweetest little nutcase in existence. Well, except for the frequent evisceration and tendency towards massive slaughter of innocents, but no one’s perfect. Still, that does bring up a point.

“Can you be a very good girl?” I ask seriously. “Everyone here today is a friend of Angel’s or mine. We’d both be very upset if someone wound up swinging from the chandelier by their intestines.”

Dru makes a little face, but she raises her right hand. “I promise not to hurt or bite or kill or do anything naughty until after I leave the city,” she says.

She’s done a lot, but Drusilla’s never lied to me, and somehow it’s kind of nice to think that there’s going to be someone here who’s known us a good long while. Not like I’m having her give me away at the altar or any such, but, well, family should be here on this day, I suppose, and if Dru’s anything, she’s family.

“Alright, then,” I say, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “You’re officially invited. I’ll let Angel know you’re here so there won’t be any trouble.”

“Oh, good,” she says happily. “I even brought a gift!”

“Um, not so sure that’s a good idea, Dru,” I say. Oh, hell. This could be bad.

“Don’t fret. I bought it from that Martha Stewart lady’s catalogue,” she says, nodding. “She seems nice. I figured Daddy wouldn’t like a wedding present that screamed.”

“Good choice,” I say. Note to self: make certain old Martha hasn’t branched out into selling candied kids or some such. “You run along, now. Make sure no one tries to stake you on accident. If Connor gives you any trouble, you tell him I said you’re okay, right?”

“Is he the blue one?” she asks, head tilted in confusion.

“No, that’s Illyria,” I say.

“The green one?”

“No, that’s Lorne,” I say, and I have to admit, this is a little amusing.

“The one with the purple stripes?” she asks, grasping at straws.

“That’d be the caterer,” I say. Hey, Louie the Grospnechk makes a mean triple chocolate wedding cake. I think it’s all the extra hands. “Connor’s the one that smells like Angel.”

“Oh, his little boy!” she coos. “Yes, he’s very big for four years old, isn’t he?”

You know, what frightens me is that actually makes sense.

“Thanks for coming, Dru,” I say, and I do mean it. Granted, having her stand all night in the closet with my tuxedo was a bit odd, but then really that’s about par for the course with her.

She pats my hand tenderly, and there is most definitely a draft in the room or an eyelash in my eye or some such rot to explain the reaction that gets.

“I’ll see you at the wedding, dearie,” she says as she leaves the room. “It promises to be most pretty.”

Well… now that was…

“Oh!” she says, popping her head back in the room. “Tell Angel if the two of you should ever like to play games for three, I’m quite agreeable so long as there are whips!”

With that, she’s gone. Good old Dru. Right round the bend and so certifiable she’d qualify for her own asylum, but after how easy she gave her blessing, damn if she isn’t more sane than some.

Unfortunately, I am now confronted by my bowtie. This is one of the reasons I hate tuxes. First off, men shouldn’t wear bows of any kind, and bowties are not an exception. Make me feel like I should be skipping rope and sucking on a lolly. Second, since men shouldn’t wear bows, there is absolutely no reason we should ever be expected to be able to tie them. Stupid thing is hanging limp around my neck, and I can’t even look in the mirror to see exactly what’s gone wrong. I’d chuck it, but, well, it’s important to Angel, I suppose. Henpecked already.

That’s it. Time to call in the reserves.

“Charlie!” I call… alright, bellow… down the hallway. “Get in here before I decapitate myself!”

“Geez, Spike!” he yells, jogging towards me, and, oh, look, his tie is absolutely perfect. Wanker. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“Stupid tie won’t tie! What’s the use of something that can’t even do its own name, yeah? A tie should tie,” I say, and I’m aware I’m babbling, but I think Angel would prefer that to me decimating half the hotel in frustration.

“I ain’t talkin’ about the tie, bleach for brains,” he says, giving me that Look. You know the one. The How Dumb Are You Look. I swear, someday his face is going to freeze that way. Still, he’s grabbed the tie and is doing something with it, so maybe this’ll work out okay.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Oh, nothing much,” he says, and the Look has intensified into I Am the Only One on this Block with a Brain, Aren’t I? “It’s just that I bumped into Drusilla on the stairs and damn near slayed her ass before she said you said she was okay. You tellin’ me you invited your ex to your wedding?”

“Not exactly,” I say. “She was in my closet. And yes, she is invited. She won’t cause any trouble.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want to know half I know ‘bout you and Angel and closets and coming out of ‘em and Dru being in one just does not surprise me anymore,” Gunn says, and it feels like the bloody thing is tied.

“It straight?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Gunn says, smirking. “Kind of inappropriate, don’t you think?”

“Har har,” I deadpan. “Everything going to plan?”

“Pretty much,” Gunn says. “Lorne’s all set up, guests are arriving, and the punch bowls are very clearly labeled as human and non-human.”

“Wait… does that mean that the one marked ‘human’ is for humans to drink or made out of human?” I ask.

He stands there for a second, and I swear his shoulders droop like a kid who just struck out in Little League.

“Aw, man,” he says. “Okay, maybe not so clearly labeled. I’ll fix it.”

“Don’t worry about it, Charlie boy,” I say. “Anyone from Sunnydale show?”

“Giles is down there along with Willow. She’s already sobbing into a handkerchief at,” and here Gunn puts on a falsetto and bats his lashes for emphasis, “’how beautiful it all is!’”

I laugh. How the hell can you not? Good old Willow, who’s re-souled my groom-to-be twice at this point. I owe her. I guess I can go through the day without making fun of her penchant for crying at weddings.

Well, I might make it through part of the day.

“Everything else going pretty well down there?” I ask.

“Illyria wanted me to ask you something,” he says, then frowns. “Okay, she ordered me to inform, more like.”

Uh-oh.

“She wants to walk you down the aisle so she can give you away,” Gunn says with a roll of his eyes. “She said, and I quote, ‘He is my pet. I should decide how to dispose of him.’ Still gives me the creeps.”

“Just her way,” I say, though he’s right, of course. “Course, her idea of walking down the aisle probably involves me being turned arse over teakettle over her shoulder and shoved at Angel like last week’s roast beef, so I do believe I’d prefer to skip that bit of the ceremony if possible.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll work on it. Last I saw, she was staring at a cocktail napkin,” Gunn says, and his mouth quirks. “She said that I shouldn’t interrupt their conversation as I couldn’t possibly understand the depths of their understanding.”

“Seat her next to Dru,” I say on sudden inspiration. I pity anyone else at that table.

“Say, not a bad idea,” Gunn says, nodding. “Lorne’s at that table, too. He should be able to tell if Dru’s planning on wiping us all out or something too. So… it’s almost showtime. Better get a move on. Oh, and Angel sent you up a boutonniere.”

It’s a red rose. Poofy, yet somehow deeply touching. I manage to pin it on without sticking my thumb, which is nigh on a miracle considering I’ve somehow developed the shakes in the last minute. Deep breath. I don’t care that it’s optional for the likes of me. My knees have just turned to pudding. Not Jell-O. I can’t stand that stuff. Nice, butterscotch pudding. I’m internally rambling. It’s a sign of just how nervous I’ve become that I briefly consider walking back into the room and checking myself in the mirror.

Right. I’m off to the lobby for the grand entrance down the staircase. I just hope to bloody hell I don’t trip.


	2. Chapter 2

“Angel,” he asks in that voice that says he knows he’s stating the obvious, “you didn’t sleep last night, did you.”

“I slept some,” I lie defensively. Okay, I did drift a little between six and seven in the morning. Considering I had nightmares about all of my victims showing up for the wedding while wearing bridesmaids’ dresses, I’m kind of glad I didn’t sleep any longer. It’s disturbing enough to be guilt-ridden, but I do not need to see that one guy I killed in 1825 who looked a lot like Dom DeLuise dressed up in violet organza with ruffles.

“Right,” Connor says riley, and he really has his mother’s gift of calling someone an idiot just by subtly rolling his eyes at them. “So, what else needs to be done besides making sure you don’t get so exhausted you wind up face down in the punch bowl before the ceremony even starts?”

“I am not going to fall asleep,” I assure him a touch angrily. Granted, I may very well throw up in the punch bowl, though. My nerves are making it feel like there’s a sting quartet playing in my stomach, and the cellist’s bow keeps hitting me right behind the naval. “Did you make sure the flowers arrived?”

“Yeah,” he says, sitting down casually on the arm of a chair. He’s so calm that it’s unnerving me. Who am I kidding? I was unnerved to begin with. He’s just making that damn cellist play the “William Tell Overture” at double speed. “They’re all here.”

“Did Spike’s boutonnière get delivered yet?”

“Gunn’s got it. He said he’d handle it,” Connor says.

“Are you sure he’ll remember?”

“It’s Gunn. He’ll remember,” Connor sighs, giving me a put-upon look. If Gunn forgets, I may have to hurt him… or worse, his truck.

“What about the food? Nothing’s burned, and they remembered the cheese puffs, and they’ve laid in a supply of Krifnah spawn for those demons from the dimension I still can’t pronounce, and…? ”

“The caterer is all set up in what used to be the ballroom,” Connor tells me. “Human food and demon food are in abundance, which I have to tell you, memories or not, is pretty disgusting-looking. No wonder I was traumatized in my original life.”

“Good, good,” I say, and after it’s out, I realize that probably didn’t come out right. “Uh, not that you were traumatized, because you know I didn’t want you traumatized, and is Lorne here yet? Did he bring the CDs?”

“CD’s and Lorne are both here,” Connor says with another roll of his eyes. “And before you even ask, the ushers are in place, the guests are being seen to their seats, the spies from the new branch of Wolfram & Hart have already been thrown out, the candles are ready to be lit, I did not forget the matches, and Illyria hasn’t killed anyone.”

I sigh in relief.

“Yet,” he adds with a grin.

I smile weakly at him, but inwardly I’m wondering if that might not be prophetic. It would be exactly my luck to have my wedding turn into a bloodbath. Of course, a century or so ago I would have thought that would be the definition of a good, old-fashioned romantic wedding reception, but things change.

Thinking about the past few months, things change a lot.

I don’t know how the idea came into my head to ask Spike to marry me. It wasn’t like I had some specific moment when I knew I wanted to do this whole thing. The idea that I wanted to keep Spike in my life permanently, that I never wanted to be parted from him again, crept up on me slowly, sort of like watching the moon rise over a mountain. It was gradual and certain, slow but absolutely inevitable that we would be together, or at least that’s how I felt. And because it seemed so utterly set in stone that it would happen eventually, I didn’t really feel a pressing need to do anything about it right away. Stupid, I know, but maybe I just didn’t want to mess up what we had. I’ve had an amazingly good track record at turning seemingly good relationships into complicated, messy, horrible, traumatizing pits of despair.

Proposing was something I kept meaning to do for months. Then, one night, I got cornered alone by seven Grnoth demons. They’re nasty. They’re nine feet tall. They’re covered in razor-sharp spines. They also happen to breathe fire from each of their three mouths. I think we had a picture of one done in garish watercolors and wearing three Santa hats on the front of the Wolfram & Hart Christmas card the year I was there. I fought my way out of it, barely, but I knew I’d come really, really close to dieing again that night. It brought home for the umpteenth time that this life can get yanked away at any moment, and if I want to do something, I should do it now.

So Spike was a little surprised when I showed up in the wee hours of the morning that day with my coat still smoldering, woke him out of a sound slumber by tickling his cheek with a red rose, then getting down on one knee and very solemnly asking him to marry me.

He laughed, of course. In fact, he laughed so hard I thought he was going to crack a rib. But in between the guffaws, he breathed out the word “yes” at some point. That was all I cared about. I’ve been looking forward to this day for months, and right now… well, honestly, I can’t wait until it’s over so I don’t have to think about things like color-coordinated pocket squares for the groomsmen and worrying that if I invite David Nabbit he might accidentally get eaten by a few of our less noble former clients who wound up inviting themselves.

“Where’d you just go?” Connor asks, and I snap back to reality, realizing I’ve been staring into space for the last few minutes.

“Just… thinking of details,” I say.

“Angel, you need to stop thinking and start enjoying. You only get married once. Well, hopefully.”

The boy is right.

“Can you think of anything I’ve forgotten?”

“Well, there’s one thing,” he says, and the smirk is back. I know that Connor and I are okay with one another now, and that’s pretty obvious considering he agreed to be my best man, but the last time I saw that particular smile he was soldering be into a metal box.

“Please tell me the rings are okay?”

“The rings are right in my pocket, correctly sized, polished, and perfect,” he says. “But there is one small detail left.”

“And that would be?”

“You aren’t wearing any pants.”

I look down. Oh, for crying out loud. I’m wearing a tuxedo shirt, bow tie, jacket, and boxer shorts. Oh, and those highly highly attractive socks with the weird garter things. I remembered in the middle of dressing that I had completely forgotten Weetabix for the dessert table and immediately scribbled a note to the caterer begging him to run to the store and buy some. That had to be over an hour ago.

No wonder the Transuding Furies kept ogling me when they stopped by to wish me good luck.

“You could have mentioned that sooner!” I snap, searching around in vain for my trousers.

“What can I say? It was funny,” Connor says with smug satisfaction.

I can’t find them. They’re not here. They’re not in the closet. They’re not on the bed. They’re not in the bathroom. They’re not under the bed. They’re still not in the closet. I have no pants. I’m getting married in about fifteen minutes, and I have no pants. Pants are a necessity. Where the hell did I put my pants! I cannot get married without pants!

“Uh, Angel?” Connor says in that careful tone of voice people tend to use around crazy people.

“WHAT!” I yell.

“Your pants are on a hanger on the doorknob,” he says, pointing.

I have never been so happy to see pants in my entire life. I may weep. And yet…

“They’re wrinkly,” I say, eyeing them critically.

“No, they’re not,” Connor groans.

“Look at this! They have a crease from the hanger!”

And there is. There’s a big, fat, nasty crease right across the knees. I’m getting married and I’m going to look like the Camel with Wrinkled Knees from that Raggedy Ann book, and no, I’m not explaining how I read that.

“Okay, look, don’t cry or something,” Connor says in a really panicky voice that suggests I do indeed look like I’m ready to start sobbing hysterically. “I’ll just get out the iron and they’ll be good as new in a couple minutes.”

The iron is going to explode when he plugs it into the wall. I know it. The plug will make contact with the socket, there’ll be a little puff of smoke, then a smell of melting plastic, and poof! It’ll just explode. That’s the way life goes.

Okay, why exactly did I have to pick now to be psychic!

“Whoa!” Connor screams, hurling the smoking remains of the iron to the floor and smothering the flames with a throw rug. “Okay, you have some truly messed up karma, you know that?”

“Yeah, I know,” I say. “I don’t suppose there’s a back-up iron anywhere?”

“Uh… there’s one place I can check,” he says and dashes out of the room.

I pick up what’s left of my $500 iron, and all I can think of is what Spike would be saying right now if he could see this. It would probably involve him staring at me with those huge blue eyes for a moment, then yelping something about this being a wedding, not a Viking funeral, followed by a comment that he’s not sure how I’ll survive without my precious, poofy iron because I won’t be able to keep my knickers wrinkle-free. Then he’d laugh loudly.

I love the sound of that laugh, even directed at me. Nothing better sums up the sound of unbridled joy than Spike’s laugh. It makes my soul forget all the trouble and guilt and discouragement and suffering and just fly along beside him.

Then, I’d kiss him. And we would have wound up very, very late to our own wedding, which is one of the reasons I decided not to see him until the ceremony. With him around, I have absolutely no self-control, and I’m really glad about that. I’ve had to have too much control for too long.

I’m also a complete nervous wreck, so I start doing what I always do when I get this insanely paranoid. I open up the nearest drawer and start folding socks.

Yes, I fold socks. It’s comforting. And neurotic, as Spike has pointed out, but still, comforting, mindless, simple, uncomplicated toil. Ahh.

I apparently got wrapped up in my folding as Connor has just come through the door, and thank goodness he’s actually carrying an iron!

“Are you organizing your socks by color?”

The look on his face is akin to what would happen if he walked in here and found me waltzing with a giant penguin.

“Yes.”

It’s best not to lie in situations where you’ve been caught red-handed. Though I’d really, really like to try about now. Connor blinks once, then plugs in the iron, which doesn’t try to explode like a firework on the Fourth, thankfully.

“You want me to iron, or you want to do it?” he asks.

I’ve never moved so fast in my life. The kid doesn’t appear to own a single item that is designed to hold a crease.

“I’ll do it,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant, but the look Connor is giving me says that I’m fooling absolutely no one.

Press, press. Press, press. Press, press. It’s oddly comforting.

“Where did you get this?” I ask.

“Harmony,” Connor says.

That was nice of her.

Wait. Harmony was involved in a plot to kill me. Why is Harmony here?

“Why is Harmony here?” I ask. Sometimes you just can’t improve on your original thought.

“Apparently, Lorne invited her,” Connor says, flopping down in a chair. “He said there needed to be at least one person at the reception who was pretty, capable of dancing, not given to brooding, and whose idea of a party didn’t involve drinking until they passed out.”

I open my mouth to protest that, then run through the guest list.

“He’s got a point,” I admit as I triple check that my fly is closed. “Still, why would she bring an iron to a wedding reception?”

“Wedding present,” he says. “I rummaged through the gift table until I found something heavy and iron-shaped. I admit, I accidentally opened two blenders, a toaster, and a… I’m not exactly sure what it is, put it says on the box that it chops, dices, slices, and pulverizes. I figure it’s either a freaky-looking food processor or a killing machine. Buffy sent it from Rome.”

I can’t help laughing a little. With Buffy, either one is possible.

“Well, in any case, thanks,” I say and give him the traditional manly slap on the shoulder that passes for a sign of affection this century.

“It’s getting to be about that time,” he says, and I glance at the clock. He’s right. I wonder what Spike’s doing about now. Probably pretending he’s perfectly calm while inwardly getting ready to climb the walls.

“So, am I ready?” I ask, wishing one last time I could look in a mirror.

“As ready as you’re going to be,” Connor says. “I guess I’ll see you downstairs in a minute. Good luck, Dad.”

And he’s out the door almost before I can register that.

Okay, here we go. Deep breath, let it out. Deep breath, let it out. Deep breath… great, I think I’m starting to hyperventilate. Is that even possible? Knowing my luck, probably. I just hope I don’t trip.


	3. Chapter 3

I promised myself I wouldn’t cry, but I can’t help getting a little teary eyed as I see the big apple dumpling nearly plummet to his death off the side of the staircase because he’s so nervous he forgot how many steps there were, only to have his platinum pookie dart forward and grab him at the last second. It’s nice to see those two boys making, well, nice. As I launch into the processional Angelcakes picked, an aria from Aida no less (and I argued in favor of a nice showtunes medley, let me tell you, but Angel wouldn’t hear of it), I get a little misty thinking how these two lunkheads have managed to bash each other around for over a century and then finally, happily came to the conclusion that they were soulmates. True, they didn’t both have souls until relatively recently, but you get my point.

The minister they picked is an… interesting fellow. Not human, of course, but that’s par for this crowd. It’s like the United Nations, only far more colorful in here. The presider does at least look human, though, except for the eyes: they’re a rather attractive shade of teal. Reminds me a little of Groo. There’s the usual rigamarole about commitment, meeting destinies across time, are you here of your own consent, yadda yadda yadda, and I have to admit Spike looks a little drowsy, while Angel is getting downright me-colored. Hope he doesn’t urp all over his intended.

And now the moment of truth: “If anyone here can show just cause why these two…” In the movies, something always happens when they say that—bombs exploding, both literal and metaphorical, dragons eating the groom, whatever—and for just a second, I’m nervously scanning the audience, hoping that Dubya didn’t somehow sneak in the back door, but aside from Harmony hiccupping quietly from having a little too much pre-ceremony champagne, it’s a happy, quiet moment. Whew.

They’re saying the vows now, and darn it all if I’m not getting all sappy again. Angel goes first, and he’s stumbling over words. “Photographic memory” my Aunt Frances. I think he just promised to love, honor, and oy vay. Well, in this relationship, oy vay could very well be precisely what they’re both going to be doing a lot of from time to time. Well, at least he got the ring on his finger right. There we go. And the big paluka looks so relieved that part is over he may just swoon.

And now it’s Spike’s turn to do the mushy stuff. I’m hoping against hope he doesn’t choose to quote Syd Vicious for his vows.

Wait a sec…

He can’t possibly be doing what I think he is.

“I can’t smile without you, can’t smile without you. I can’t laugh, and I can’t sing. I’m finding it hard to do anything, and I feel sad when you’re sad, feel glad when you’re glad…”

Holy heavens spinning wildly out of control, he’s quoting Manilow! Granted, not singing it, but Angel’s grinning like the biggest sap on earth and I may just melt away into a puddle of romantic goo. Half the witnesses are looking at each other in horror, and the other half are crying. Willow’s sobbing. Giles there appears to be firmly in the I Can’t Believe I’m Here for This group. And I know Spike hates that song, which is why this means so much.

Before I know it, the minister has pronounced them officially married, and a cheer rises from the assembled throng. As I belt into a lovely rendition of “A Whole New World,” Spike gives me the evil eye as they process down the aisle, closely followed by Connor and Gunn. What? Angel said no showtunes, not no Disney, and Spike’s the one who broke the oft-repeated Manilow embargo. As they’re going past and out into the reception room we set up in the old section of the Hyperion, I spot a certain dark-haired lass in the crowd just about to follow them out the door. Isn’t that… what the hell is Drusilla doing here?

I hit a bad note on that one. I freely admit it. If Simon Cowell were here, he’d have chucked my keister offstage so fast I’d have broken the sound barrier. Faster than humanly possible, Drusilla’s three feet in front of me, and even over the fabulous piano and guitar combo I’ve put together for this fiesta, I still hear her say in my general direction, “No worries. I’m a good girl tonight!” as she wanders to the reception.

Geez, what poor dopes are sitting at her table?


	4. Chapter 4

So the wedding’s over, thank whatever. It was sweet, though I’ll deny it to my dying day, and if anyone ever brings up where my vows came from, soul or no, they’re getting disemboweled with a barbeque fork. Was worth it, though, when Angel looked at me all dewy-eyed.

But enough with this sentimental crap. Now it’s time for food, beer, and hard metal.

You know what the fun thing is about sitting at a head table on a raised dias and eating rubbery chicken? Not much, truth be told, but one amusing bit is being able to see the whole bevy of incredibly weirdly ecclectic guests who showed up for tonight. Willow over there, for example, is sitting with Giles, Harmony, Andrew—who I swear I did not invite—and that weird David Hobbit guy or whatever his name is. There’s also a fairly placid looking demon with gold and silver skin. I can’t figure out if it’s male or female, which is a little unsettling, but oddly Willow doesn’t seem much preturbed by that. They’re flirting, no question. Also, Harm seems infatuated with the size of Hobbit boy’s wallet. Love is in the air. That leaves poor old Rupe with Andrew as his conversation partner for the rest of the night. Guess I still am evil since that tickles me.

Then, there’s a collection of various former clients, both demon and human, as well as a variety of complete strangers to me. I think word went out through the non-human community that there were free eats going on, and that sucked ‘em in the door like bugs to one of those zapper things.

But the real gem, no question, is table number five: Lorne, Illyria, Dru, and the Furies (and may I add if they look at Angel that way again I am starting bloodshed). If I strain, I can just make out their conversation. Vamp ears are good for summat.

“I do not understand this concept,” old Bluebell deadpans. “They have been mating for a year. The ceremony is pointless and without merit.”

“Illyria, my little bluebird of everything but happiness,” Lorne chimes in, “you have no romance in your soul at all.”

“This ‘romance’ you speak of is simply the primitive reproductive urge to spawn more of your lowly, snivelling species before you die in your brief span of time allotted to you, preventing you from being wiped out. Also, I believe the thing you call Hallmark plays a role in it.”

I snorted. I admit it. Angel’s looking at me, and I flick my gaze over to them and back.

“What the hell is Dru doing here?” he asks, and yeah, he’s obviously stuck a stake in his coat pocket because he’s reaching for it on instinct.

“S’okay, luv. She’s on best behavior tonight. Wants to wish us well is all.”

“Oh.”

That seems to satisfy him, but I can tell he’s joined me in a bit of eavesdropping now, and really, who could blame us.

“You don’t get out much, do you?” my girl asks Illyria, giving her that slightly open-mouthed look of disdain she does so well. The Furies seem to be bright enough to let them well enough alone. They’re just hovering in mid-air and packing away the appetizers like they were sumo wrestlers instead of airy-fairy whatsits. It’s always the petite ones that can pack it away.

“I get out regularly. I do not understand your line of thought.”

Dru draws closer to her, and normally Illyria’d have had her neck snapped right quick after that move, but she’s playing fair and just whispering in her ear.

“They’re both dead, dearie. And they’re both boys. They can’t make babies, so your little theory about love falls all to pieces, mmmm?”

And Illyria is blinking. Rare that happens at all. Score one for my princess.

“Nice one, Dru,” Lorne says, patting her on the back affectionately.

And she’s giving him an appraising look.

“Pretty color,” she says, staring at Lorne’s green skin. “You remind me of Kermit. Daddy was a puppet once, you know.” And she’s turning to Illyria. “I never much liked the Smurfs, though.”

That was Angel snorting that time.

Round about now, though, the cake’s being served, and damn it all if Angel wasn’t right about the caterer. Triple chocolate cake. I swear, even when I hadn’t a soul, I might have preferred living on this stuff. Course, I’d wind up weighing roughly the same as a fully loaded barge, but it might have been worth it. S’right good, and you know what they say about chocolate being an aphrodisiac.

The music starts up. Angel’s got the DJ playing all sorts of tosh; he seems to have chosen his music from the files of AM radio. It takes me a while to get him to get his arse on the dance floor, but once we’re there, we sort of melt against each other and the rest of the party fades into a blurry watercolor. It hasn’t really hit me until now. Rest of our lives, him and me, together. I slip into the feeling of it with a contented sigh, and let the music just sweep over me. I must be getting soft in my old age because there is no way in hell I would ever have thought I’d have some kind of personal revelation on a dance floor while swaying to something by the Carpenters. I can’t decide whether to be horrified at the nonce I’ve become or just let it go.

Eh, you only get married once.

I’m just about to express my eternal devotion to the lummox by slipping my hand down to cup that sweet backside of his, several hundred witnesses present or not (really, if they haven’t figured out what we’ll be doing for the next dozen or so hours, they’re in need of serious therapy and the Playboy channel, so what’s the use of being demure?) when someone taps me on the shoulder. This had better be important.

“What?” I snap.

“Whoa, Spike, take it easy. I just thought you might want to notice what’s going on over there,” Connor says, gesturing to a darkened corner of the floor.

I’m gaping.

Angel’s gaping.

Connor looks a bit appalled.

“They’re both consenting adults,” I finally manage to squeak out as I watch Lorne and Drusilla doing an incredibly erotic version of the Lambada that involves a good deal of groping on both of their parts. It’s definitely not the music that’s inspiring it, either. “Build Me Up, Buttercup” and moves not seen since Johnny and Baby just don’t go together naturally. Damned if they don’t look happy, though. S’what matters, innit?

“She’s not… you know… whammying him or something?” Connor says, grimacing.

“Nu-uh,” I say. “You can’t do what they’re doing right now and maintain eye contact. Angel? Angel?”

He’s just sort of staring, and his mouth is hanging open.

“That is disturbing.”

I start giggling. I admit it. It’s a full on, high pitched giggle. I reach up to kiss Angel, just out of the pure delight at how bizarre and wonderful and perfect everything is.

“Upstairs, now,” he mutters in my ear.

I couldn’t agree more. As we head out the door with considerably more than average speed, I can’t help thinking that this is the moment when the floor will open into a yawning pit of flame, a demonic army will break down the doors, and a group of cyborg ninjas created by Wolfram & Hart will crash through the ceiling. And yet, blessedly, for once, the end of the world doesn’t appear imminent. The music dies away as we race pell-mell up the hotel’s steps.

I still have the incredibly ugly, red-and-purple plaid, individual toes socks that are my wedding present to Angel and his perpetually cold feet scrunched up in my tux pocket, waiting to save me from the horror that is his supernaturally freezing toes in bed. Somehow, though, tonight I don’t think I’m going to mind.


End file.
